


August

by Order_Of_The_Forks



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: F/M, Human AU, M/M, Modern AU, implied snorkmaiden, road trip baybey!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Order_Of_The_Forks/pseuds/Order_Of_The_Forks
Summary: On the first day of summer vacation, Snufkin walks to Moomin's house with an offer.





	1. Chapter 1

On the first day of summer vacation, Snufkin walks to Moomin’s house.

There are still balloons tied to the mailbox, ones that say “GRAD” in obnoxious letters and reflect the sun into the eyes of pedestrians. 

Summer is the best season, in Snufkin’s opinion. The freedom is unmatched. After spending three quarters of the year in a relentless cycle of school then homework then school the next day, there’s nothing quite like waking up an hour after your alarm was supposed to go off and knowing that the world is your oyster, at least for three months. 

He usually does a lot of hiking in the summer with Moomin. There’s a wonderful set of trails around town that they always go to, and a thick forest by the dump that they were foolish enough to try to navigate once or twice. They go sailing and fishing and go to the pool to hang out with Snorkmaiden, who’s a lifeguard. 

And usually, late in the summer, he would go away. Not for long- just for a little less than a month. He would get in his car and just drive. Anywhere. He just hops on the highway and keep taking exits until he gets somewhere worth being. And he knows Moomin misses him, because he makes Snufkin send him texts every day to confirm his aliveness. 

He just needs space, sometimes.

But this year, on the first day of summer vacation, he skips the car and walks, in 80 degree heat, to Moomin’s house, where he knocks on the door with the confidence of a day-one Mormon convert. 

That is to say, about as confident as an ant in water. 

Moominmamma opens the door. She’s wearing gardening clothes (he can tell by the grass stains on her knees) but her hands are clean, and her smile is genuine. “Snufkin! How wonderful. Moomin’s upstairs in his room, if you’d like to see him.”

Snufkin nods and heads inside, into the cool comfort of the house. The Moomins have air conditioning, that’s something he’s eternally jealous of. His house is always baking in the summer, and every room feels like a sauna. So he usually spends the summer in Moomin’s house, relishing the mechanically cold air before surrendering to the heat again. 

Moomin is indeed in his room, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his big blue rug with stacks of papers spread out all around him. 

“Hello, Moomin,” Snufkin says.

Moomin looks up and positively beams. “Hello! I missed you.”

Snufkin sits on the edge of Moomin’s bed, on the same striped duvet he’s had since the ninth grade. “You saw me on Tuesday.”

“Yes, but that seems like ages ago. Can you believe we’ve graduated? It still doesn’t seem real.”

Snufkin nods slowly. “Is that what…” he gestures to the paper tornado that struck the room, “this is?”

“Oh! I’m trying to go through all my schoolwork, see what I can toss and what should go to the memory folder.”

“Memory folder,” Snufkin repeats. The concept is foreign to him. 

“See,” Moomin holds up a formal-looking piece of paper, “this is my National Honors Society certificate. Memory folder.” He drops it into a pile on his left, significantly smaller than the pile on his right, which Snufkin assumes to be the trash. 

Moomin has always been a good student. He graduated with a 4.7 GPA, whereas Snufkin only had a 3.8. He likes to believe he’s street smart instead, but he’s really just horrible at school. All the sitting in chairs, the tests, the conformity. Moomin thrived in the system, Snufkin just floundered. 

“Have you cleaned out your backpack yet?” 

Snufkin shrugs. “No. I’ll probably just recycle all the paper and give my little siblings my folders.”

“So, what did you want to do?” Moomin pauses his sorting, sitting back on his hands and looking up at Snufkin, still perched on his bed. 

“Nothing in particular.”

The back of Snufkin’s neck is sweaty, where his hair is a little too long. Moomin gets back to work, mechanically going through the papers until the pile in front of him began to rapidly diminish. 

“Actually…” 

Moomin looks up.

“There was something I wanted to ask you.”

Snufkin can feel his pulse quicken irrationally. Logically, he asks himself, what’s the worst that can happen? Moomin would say no and stop being his friend forever? It’s possible. Friends have falling-outs all the time. 

“Um. Would you like to go on a road trip with me?”

Moomin’s eyes widen. “Where to?”

Snufkin grins; he knows that, without saying, Moomin has already said yes. Something in his gut twists. “Anywhere you want.”

~

On the first Thursday of August, Snufkin drives to Moomin’s house with a backpack of clothes in the back seat. 

Moomin had been waiting by the door; he can tell because as soon as the car pulls into the driveway, Moomin’s already out the door, bags in his hands. 

Moominmamma follows close behind. “You’re going to take care of my baby, right?”

Moomin flushes bright red. “Mamma, _please_.”

Snufkin just laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then have fun, you two!”

And with his mother’s blessing, Moomin climbs into the passenger seat next to him, and the smile on his face rivals the hot summer sun. 

Snufkin doesn’t have AC in the car, so they keep the windows rolled down as they pull out of the driveway and out onto the quiet suburban streets. There are folks out jogging and walking dogs and Moomin waves to almost every one of them. He seems to know everybody; Snufkin has no idea how that works. 

There are two kids from the high school, both the grade under them, walking with ice cream. Moomin waves and they both holler, “ayy!” Snufkin shoots them a quick peace sign but keeps his eyes on the road.

Moomin lets one arm hang out of the window as they drive. He’s going to get sunburned, but Snufkin keeps his mouth shut. It’s not like he packed sunscreen, anyway.

They spend about an hour in blissful calm until the radio begins to die out. Moomin flips around on the stations, but they’re all static. “Hey, can I use the aux?”

“Sure. Just play something good.”

There’s a little bit of fumbling around before Moomin gets the music all set up, and through the crackly speakers come the strains of acoustic guitar and the telltale twang of the banjo. 

Snufkin groans. “I forgot you like country music.”

Moomin grins wickedly. “Shut up. I know you like it too.”

Snufkin shuts up, because he does like it.

He sneaks a glance over at Moomin, comfortably settled in the passenger’s seat with his arm still hanging out of the open window. He looks… pretty, the sun caught in his hair. The outline of his face against the trees lining the highway. 

Driving isn’t fun, really. At least not on the highway. Soon, he would be able to turn off onto some nice country roads, which is always a little more interesting. But right now they’re just trapped on the highway, caged in by cars and white lines. But it’s a little better just having Moomin there. It’s nice to have his country music and the way he reads everyone’s bumper stickers out loud. 

There’s a farmstand on the side of the road and they pull into the dirt parking lot, taking advantage of their port-a-potty and reasonably priced, homegrown peaches. Moominmamma had packed them a cooler of food and they make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and eat them from the trunk of the car, looking out over the highway. It feels strange to watch the cars pass. Sometimes folks have their windows rolled down and they can hear music for a few seconds, fading in and out of earshot in the blink of an eye. 

The teenager manning the register is wearing a rainbow striped t-shirt and upsells them like a champ, and they leave with a bag of cherries and a half dozen apple cider donuts. 

They eat as they drive and Moomin says that they’re the best donuts in the world. Snufkin’s not inclined to disagree. 

Moomin sings along to his country music loudly. He doesn’t have the best voice, but that hardly matters. Snufkin loves it all the same. 

The music is nice, though it pains Snufkin to say it. The chords are fun and major and every song seems to sing, “summer.”

The song is sung by a woman and Moomin has to slip into falsetto every other line. It’s kind of funny, because his voice cracks a lot. 

The song is sweet. First love and all that. 

Snufkin wishes he could close his eyes and just let the summer breeze wash over him but he can’t, he’s driving. So he keeps his gaze firmly ahead and ignores the burning happiness blossoming in his gut, threatening to spill over and fill his whole body with that lovely feeling. 

Moomin hits a high note and cracks a proud smile. Snufkin laughs and he can feel the joy grow up into his chest like ivy. 

There’s a park that advertises free camping and when they park they realize that Snufkin forgot his tent, so they decide that when the time comes, they’ll just fold down the seats and sleep in the car. 

It’s about dinnertime, so they go wandering in the town near the park. There’s a little country store that sells guns and camouflage vests and fishing gear. There’s also a wall of penny candy, and Moomin and Snufkin each grab a white paper bag and fill them up to the brim with old-timey candies that they’ve never heard of like sarsaparilla drops and anise squares. 

Moomin gets a box of potato candy and they check out. The guy at the cashier has a bushy grey beard that reaches to his chest and he glares at Snufkin for no discernable reason. 

They laugh about it and find a restaurant in town to eat dinner at. It’s supposed to look like a rustic pub or something, and it has these tables that are supposed to look like logs cut in half. They look kind of stupid, but Snufkin enjoys dragging his hands back and forth against the rough edges of the table, following the grain of the wood with the tip of his index finger.

The food is alright. Moomin drags Snufkin into a debate about if two vampires have a kid, would the baby be born a vampire or is vampirism an acquired trait? 

Snufkin doesn’t say much, he just lets Moomin speculate freely and interjects when he sees fit.

Halfway through their meal, the lights flicker out. Moomin looks at Snufkin and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Attention!” One of the waitresses shouts, the one with the flannel shirt. “It looks like we’ve lost power. You will not be able to order any hot meals, but sandwiches are alright!”

It’s quiet for a few moments, and then some guy yells, “you can still pump beer, can you?”

Moomin laughs so hard strawberry lemonade comes out of his nose. They use a whole pile of napkins to mop up the mess and leave them heaped on the Snufkin’s empty plate, and the waitress in the flannel looks at them weirdly when she comes to take their check. 

After dinner, they walk around a little more. It’s a beautiful night, nice and not too humid. The heat of the day had transitioned into a pleasant night warmth. The short power outage seemed to not have bothered the little town much; there are fairy lights strung up in the trees and all the shops along the streets are lit from the inside, casting an orange glow on the pair. 

There’s a wonderful sunset around 8:00, all pink and orange. Moomin gasps and points up to the sky. Snufkin snaps a picture. Sunsets never quite turn out in photos, but by the time they’ve been distorted by the camera, it’s almost as if there’s a whole new sunset created in Snufkin’s phone. While Moomin’s looking away Snufkin takes a covert picture of him, framed by the sunset and the trees. 

They return to the park where the car is left between the trees, and they fold down the seats and roll out their sleeping bags and Moomin takes out a can of pepper spray that his mother apparently packed for him and leaves it next to where he lies. Snufkin thinks it’s a surefire way for someone to roll over on it during the night and spray himself in the eyes, but if it makes Moomin feel safer, he’s not going to deprive him of that. 

There’s a crummy sunroof in Snufkin’s car that doesn’t open but they lie on their backs and look out. The pines all converge into one point, brushing against the circle of exposed stars. 

“Can I drive tomorrow?” Moomin asks softly.

Snufkin turns his head to meet Moomin’s eyes. “Sure.”

They stay that way, gazes locked, until Moomin turns back and closes his eyes. “Goodnight.”

Snufkin smiles to himself and takes in the silence of the car, the slight smell of sweat and the cherries in the front seat. 

“Thank you for inviting me.”

Snufkin turns to look at Moomin again, even though he knows he’s not looking. Moomin looks so _nice_ , his hair all messy from the day’s antics and a satisfied smile on his face. And Snufkin has no place to see him that way, but he can’t help it. 

“Anything for you, Moomee.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stumble across a strange radio station.

Snufkin wakes up that morning with a crick in his back. They’ve both shifted around during the night, and Moomin’s arm is draped over Snufkin’s chest. His mouth hangs open as he sleeps, and in the morning light flooding in through the car windows Snufkin can see the faint pink on Moomin’s nose, the beginning of a sunburn. 

A quick look at his watch tells him that it’s nine in the morning, so Snufkin shakes Moomin awake. He wakes up ungracefully, all mumbles and bleary eyes. 

They brush their teeth side by side at the communal spigot with the rocks around the bottom and spit their toothpaste in the woods. There are spiderwebs on the red handle of the spigot and Moomin refuses to touch it, so Snufkin has to turn the water on and off for them. Snufkin’s mouth still feels a little chalky afterwards.

They get coffee from some shop in town (that is, Snufkin gets coffee. Moomin gets tea) and they hit the road. 

It’s still a little ethereal in the morning. The fog hasn’t wholly lifted from where it sits on the top of the trees. The roads they take are winding and narrow, centuries-old pines sloping above them and caging them in on all sides. It’s a cool morning, but they keep the windows open regardless. Moomin’s hair blows around in the wind, and he keeps running his hand over the top of his head. Snufkin itches to tell him to keep his hands on the wheel. 

It’s only the second day of the trip but Snufkin feels like they’ve been on the road forever. Like they’ve been like _this_ forever, easy and close. Like the way that Moomin didn’t even apologize for almost-cuddling him during the night when he woke up, just laughed and smoothed down Snufkin’s bedhead. 

He feels a little guilty for loving the way that Moomin keeps sneaking glances at him as they drive. 

They’ve finally come into range of some non-staticky radio stations, so Snufkin flips through the stations until he lands on one that seems to be church music or something. It’s a choir, hundreds of people singing in harmony. He’s got his hand on the dial to change it when Moomin says, “no, keep it.”

It’s a little strange that there’s a station playing church music on a Friday, and stranger still that Moomin would want to listen to it. He was raised Jewish, after all. At least, the Moomins always celebrated Hanukkah. Snufkin doesn’t think they ever really went to temple or anything. 

But the song is pretty. 

Snufkin closes his eyes and lets the harmony fill his ears, slightly distorted from his car’s awful speakers.   
_Oh, brothers, let’s go down; down to the river to pray._

Snufkin had always been an atheist. His mom wasn’t religious, and he’s never felt too close to the concept of god or anything. He likes to believe he’s in control of his life. But there is a certain something about church music, something about the harmonies and the togetherness of such a large choir, the intensity with which they all sing. _Good lord, show me the way._

The song ends and transitions to another, probably Bach or something, and the spell is broken. 

Now they’re just two teenagers in a car listening to classical music and Snufkin feels silly for allowing himself to get lost in the feeling like that. 

He’s always cherished his alone time. Especially these trips in the summer, where he’s all alone with his thoughts and the changing landscape. And he thought inviting Moomin would make him feel caged in, or something. Like, if he wanted to go somewhere but Moomin didn’t, he would have no choice but to follow along. But it’s not like that. Not yet. They’re free _together_ , something Snufkin never thought could be possible. He always thought that it was an oxymoron. 

He watches Moomin. 

Moomin clenches his jaw as he drives, but sometimes he realizes and opens his mouth a little, trying to relax the muscles. He keeps his eyes straight on the road. If Snufkin didn’t know him better, he’d think that he was tense, nervous even. But there’s something about him that speaks joy, and Snufkin can’t help but feel it rub off on him.

Eventually the church music fades back into static and they’re back to listening to Moomin’s country. 

He sings along under his breath. 

Snufkin watches the almost imperceptible movements of his mouth. 

They eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again for lunch. This time, they find a sketchy rest stop with weather-worn picnic tables, so they park and use the grimy bathrooms and find a table. Moomin teases Snufkin for sitting on the table with his feet on the seat rather than like normal, but it’s all in good fun.

Moomin gets a soda from the vending machine by the bathrooms and when he’s not looking, Snufkin takes a sip. Of course, he is looking, and he swats Snufkin on the arm and shifts the can over to the other side of him, where it’s harder for Snufkin to reach.

Moomin eats the crusts off of his sandwich first and works his way in, biting the sandwich into a circle, slowly decreasing the size until he gets to one perfect center bite, which he pops in his mouth with a satisfied smile. He’s done this for as long as Snufkin has known him. He doesn’t know why he does it, Moominmamma certainly wouldn’t have taught him to eat like that. 

There’s a family running around the rest stop, eating sandwiches of their own on the adjacent picnic table. A mom and a dad and three kids, all between the ages of about 6 and 10. The parents look at Moomin and Snufkin like they’re worried about the two teenagers with messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts and for a moment it almost looks like the mom is going to say something, but one of the kids yells for her to come watch him do a cartwheel and her attention is pulled away.

Snufkin is aware they’re conspicuous. 

He’s spent his entire life trying to fade into the background and he can do that alone. When he’s alone, he can eat his meager meals in the car. He can avoid crowds and prying eyes. But they’re out here, out in the open, and he knows how young they look. Despite the fact that they’re legally adults. 

He wonders what people think of them. If people think they ran away from home or if they’re going on a crime spree or something. 

Moomin checks his phone and he has a text from Snorkmaiden, one that reads “I miss you,” with a frowny face and a heart.

The family leaves but Snufkin wants to stay a while longer. 

So they sit on the picnic table, not talking, just enjoying the cool breeze and the smell of the pines. 

The hems of Snufkin’s shorts are frayed from wear and Moomin, seemingly absentmindedly, pulls at a dangling string. Snufkin’s stomach clenches involuntarily. 

They get back in the car once they’re all digested and drive. They don’t stop until dusk, when they see a convenience store and realize that they’re pretty hungry, actually.

Snufkin gets a greasy slice of lukewarm pizza and Moomin gets a hot dog and they eat as they drive. 

There’s a push behind them, it seems. To go as long as they can. Like some misty voice is daring them to get farther from the valley than they ever thought possible. 

Moomin drives with one hand on the wheel and one hand holding his hot dog. “This tastes like shit,” he comments. 

“Don’t swear,” Snufkin says, without even thinking about it. “And keep your hands on the wheel.”

Moomin just sticks his tongue out petulantly and puts his hot dog down and eats it at stop signs instead. 

They’ve changed a lot, he realizes, since they first met. 

Moomin used to be a Boy Scout. 

Snufkin’s not so conceited as to pretend he was a bad influence on Moomin, exactly. But he certainly was an _influence_.

And Moomin changed Snufkin, too.

They both changed a lot. But everybody changes, from middle school to high school to graduation. 

Moomin had a graduation party in his backyard, with all his friends and a big sheet cake.

Snufkin spent the night before graduation alone in his room. But he wasn’t quite alone, because he had Moomin on the phone, talking through their worries and dreams for the future. Moomin was buzzing with excitement because he was going to his _dream college_ , he was going to spend the next four years of his life in his most perfect fantasy. 

And Snufkin told him that he wasn’t going to college, he was going to hike the Appalachian trail, all the way from Georgia to Maine.

When he was done with that, then he would see what he was ready for. He had heard of people who loved the trail so much that when they finished, they turned right around and did it again and again until the end of time.

But right now, there are no worries about college and hiking and _the future_. It’s just the two of them, coasting down the winding country roads. Moomin taps his fingers to the beat of the song against the steering wheel. 

They find a place to stay for the night at around midnight. Snufkin really has no idea where they are right now. But they park the car in the trees and sleep the same way they did last night. This time, Snufkin knows that Moomin’s going to end up in his space by morning, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered by the knowledge. 

He falls asleep with a warm, cozy feeling in his chest, like a blanket wrapped tight around his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again  
> this is purely self indulgence haha  
> but please comment bc i feed off of positive reinforcement from strangers


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys encounter Amish country.

They travel like that for a couple days. Windows down, music up, stopping only to eat and pee. 

Part of that is the landscape. They hit country, just an endless expanse of corn and wheat with the road slicing through it like a hot asphalt knife. Every hour they see a house with no car in the driveway, and every day they see a handful of people in rustic clothes doing stuff like churning butter by hand. They always look up when they hear the car coming and glare at it as if satan’s chariot had come rolling past. One time, one old woman made some sort of gesture towards them that Moomin thought was a witchy curse or something. 

There’s just no reason to stop.

For two days straight there’s nowhere to stop, no rest stops or anything, just one beat-up gas station that appears right as they’re about to run out, so they eat sandwiches out of the trunk of the car and pee in the woods. 

Moomin worries that it’ll mess up the crops but Snufkin assures him that it’s probably good fertilizer or something. 

Moomin finds an old pair of aviator sunglasses in the glovebox and puts them on. Snufkin says he looks hot with them on and Moomin turns bright red. He says he likes Snufkin’s cat-eye sunglasses that he stole from his mom. Snufkin knows he’s lying, but he doesn’t care. 

It’s oppressively hot. If they were more macho guys, they’d probably take their shirts off, but neither of them really feel comfortable with that. So they just sweat and complain lightheartedly. 

The only downside to the country is the lack of showers. Usually at parks and camps, there are showers provided, eight minutes for a quarter. 

Moomin jokes that these people probably don’t shower, they take baths in hot springs or something. 

So Snufkin’s car just ends up smelling like sweat and boy, but during the day, when the windows are down, all he can smell is the sweet scent of cut grass. 

After a while, they end up in an actual town. Moomin says, “hallelujah!” half-jokingly at the sight of it. 

They find a YMCA with showers and, once Moomin flashes his membership card, make a beeline for them. Snufkin is pretty hungry, but he knows if he goes into a respectable dining establishment smelling the way he does, nobody’s going to be too happy.

Moomin gets out of the shower with his skin red from the hot water. His hair gets curly when it’s wet, and it frizzes up at the top of his head when he rubs his towel against it. 

They walk into the center of town. It’s kind of stupid for them to do that, because they need to walk along a solid stretch of road of identical manufactured houses before hitting the actual town, but it’s not so bad. The sidewalks are well managed, no cracks or anything, and as the cars go by, the two of them get bombarded by rushes of wind that make Moomin’s still-damp hair flutter around his temples.

The town is decently sized, just on the verge of being a pure suburbia. There’s a farmer’s market going on in the middle of town, and they stop by.

It’s in front of the town hall, on a nice spot of green. There are kids running around and parents buying locally sourced food from the vendors, not paying any mind to the antics of their children. On the steps of the town hall is a band of teenagers playing a cover of a Paramore song. Nobody pays them much attention except Moomin, who does a stupid little dance as he walks past. 

They wander about the maze of vendors. Snufkin, much to his chagrin, starts to feel a little antsy. The music is so loud and the people just keep pushing on all sides. 

Then, with no warning, Snufkin can feel a hand meet his, interlocking their fingers. He looks over and there’s Moomin, smiling shyly, and Snufkin feels a little better. 

As they walk, Moomin swings their hands back and forth casually. Snufkin doesn’t usually like to be touched, but it’s fine. It’s Moomin.

They buy peaches and eat them as they walk. When they’re done, they throw the pits into a bush. Moomin says it’ll be some squirrel’s lucky day.

There’s a bagel place down the street and they take their time getting there. At one point, they’re blown past by a group of kids on bikes wearing bathing suits with beach towels slung over their shoulders. 

Snufkin wonders how Snorkmaiden’s doing at the pool. And when he sees Moomin’s face, he knows he’s thinking the same thing. Snufkin tightens his grip on Moomin’s hand. 

They’re talking about the time Little My got stuck on Mrs. Fillyjonk’s roof when their path is blocked by a young woman with a clipboard. They try to go around but she sidesteps them, putting herself right in the way.

“Hello,” Moomin says.

“Hello!” The woman says. She has blonde hair tied up in a bun and an orange t-shirt. “Would you like to make a charitable donation to the Trevor Project? We provide crisis intervention and suicide prevention for LGBTQ youth.” 

Snufkin’s hand is sweaty. 

Moomin smiles and digs around in his pocket, pulling out a twenty dollar bill and putting it in the can the woman has, the one that says “THANK YOU! :)” in silver sharpie. Snufkin’s pretty sure that if he tries to detangle his hand from Moomin’s, his skin would peel off. 

“That’s your money for lunch,” Snufkin points out.

Moomin knocks his shoulder against Snufkin’s. “You can pay for it.”

Snufkin frowns and waves goodbye to the woman and they walk on.

He doesn’t really mind paying for Moomin’s lunch. It’s only $3.25, just an everything bagel with cream cheese. They sit at a table in the corner that overlooks a big corporate parking lot to eat. The bagel place is hot and stuffy and smells like coffee. 

“That woman thought we were dating,” Snufkin says. He doesn’t quite know why he says it. 

Moomin takes a bite of his bagel. “So?”

“You have a girlfriend.”

Moomin seems to deflate. Snufkin’s not about to say he seems _disappointed_ in this reminder, but something in his demeanor changes. “She doesn’t care. She’s not here.”

Snufkin picks at his bagel- poppy seed with lox- and thinks. It was Moomin who held his hand in the first place. It’s Moomin who’s brushing off Snorkmaiden.

“If we were back home,” Snufkin says, against his own volition, “you would be freaking out right now.”

“But we’re not at home,” Moomin grins, “are we?”

They finish their lunch and walk back to their car, still parked outside of the YMCA. 

Then they drive.

Snufkin doesn’t want to spend another second in that town. It reminds him of all the worst parts of home, somehow. All built up and suburban, full of tiger moms and 5.0 GPAs. 

So he gets behind the wheel and drives, with the windows down and Moomin singing. And he’s happy and unhappy at the same time but that’s just the way of life, isn’t it? 

When they get hungry, they stop at probably the cutest diner ever established, one of those diners with metal tables and yellow walls and an old TV playing footage of a local t-ball game. They get eight dollar breakfast burritos, even though it’s nine at night. On the opposite side of the room is a bulletin board advertising things in the area, flyers for yard sales and lost cats and county fairs. 

While they’re waiting for their food to come Moomin gets up and examines the board, scrutinizing each and every posting. Snufkin watches, only half interested. 

After a few minutes, Moomin comes back with that look on his face that means he has an idea for an adventure, the same look he’s had since they were kids. 

He slaps a flyer down on the table in front of Snufkin. ‘Flyer’ is generous, it’s really just a piece of white printer paper with the words printed in some generic font. “OLD WHITE CHURCH BLUEGRASS/GOSPEL SESSIONS,” it says.

“Absolutely not,” Snufkin says.

Moomin pouts, as if he’s a five-year-old. “It would be so fun!”

Snufkin agrees. But he’s not going to let Moomin know that, lest the game be spoiled. “I think we’d get murdered.”

“If I’m murdered,” Moomin says casually, “I’d like to be murdered to the dulcet tones of bluegrass music. Wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily describe bluegrass music as ‘dulcet.’”

“Oh, fuck you. What will it take for you to come with me?”

This was a common game. It was something they made up in the sixth grade. Always the same question, always two options. “A shiny pebble,” Snufkin says, “or a kiss.”

Sometimes it’s a paper clip, or a ketchup packet, or a leaf from the ground. Or a kiss.

Moomin shakes his hand like a businessman. “Deal.”

Their breakfast burritos come, hot and steaming and dripping with grease. Snufkin usually hates this kind of food. It’s too grotesque, too obscene. But there’s something about a road trip, something about eating in a shabby Mom-and-Pop-shop and a salad just doesn’t cut it. 

The food comes with home fries on the side and Moomin takes the ketchup and squirts a crosshatch over the top of it all. Snufkin pretends not to mind and eats it anyway, even though he doesn’t like ketchup. It’s too sweet and doesn’t add anything to the quality of food. 

The diner is playing 80’s music over the radio and Moomin bounces his head to the beat, almost as if dancing from only his shoulders up. Moomin’s smile is a little mischievous and a little proud, all teeth; he knows he won the game and his grin is infectious, and soon Snufkin finds himself rocking back and forth in his booth, his own silly dance. 

It’s just the two of them, half-dancing in the diner. No other patrons, no wait staff, just them and the GoGos.

Moomin is happy and Snufkin is happy too.

They get ice cream from across the street and eat as they walk. Snufkin got a cup but Moomin got a cone, and the ice cream drips all over his hands in an instant. He eats his ice cream frantically, like a wild animal got its paws on a cone of vanilla soft serve. 

“Do you know cats can’t taste sweet?” Moomin says.

“No. How do you know?”

“I read it somewhere. Isn’t that sad?”

There’s an overflowing trash can outside of a playground and Moomin throws away the wrapper from his cone, then bends down and crawls into the little rocky garden next to the trash. There are big prickly bushes, only slightly concealed by green leaves. Moomin keeps making little noises of pain as he searches, using his phone as a flashlight. 

He stands up with his hand in a tight fist and scratches on his face and arms. “Put out your hand.”

Moomin drops a small, shiny pebble, perfectly round, into Snufkin’s outstretched palm. “Here.”

A shiny pebble or a kiss.

Snufkin licks his thumb and wipes away a bead of blood forming on Moomin’s temple. “Thanks.”

Snufkin swears Moomin blushes. 

Normally, Snufkin would toss the pebble back into the bushes. He doesn’t have any use for it. But just for today, he pockets it when Moomin isn’t looking. 

He can feel its weight in his pocket for the rest of the night. 

That night, as they lie in the back of the car, Snufkin feels as though Moomin is closer than he was the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how ymcas work ok   
> i used to live near amish country.... yike


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin feels his feelings

Trying to hold onto the passing time is like trying to catch a fish with your hands; it all goes too fast and no matter how nimble you think your fingers are, your hands are always going to be too clumsy and slow, and the fish will escape downstream.

That’s what Snufkin thinks about as they drive. He sits in the passenger seat with his head against the window, a sweatshirt for a pillow, and thinks about how quickly and how slowly this all was going.

About how when this trip is over, in a week or two Moomin will be off to college and Snufkin won’t be able to see him until winter break. 

That is, if Snufkin comes home for winter break at all. He won’t be able to begin hiking until March, so he plans on spending the fall and winter doing practice hikes and traveling. Just like he does in the summer, but whenever he wants. He’ll be free to just up and leave, but as he looks at Moomin, driving so carefully between the lines, he starts to feel a little guilty.

There’s no music playing, and Moomin sings under his breath. Snufkin knows that Moomin’s stressing about Snorkmaiden because whenever he’s worrying about Snorkmaiden, he always sings Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. It’s been that way since tenth grade, when Snorkmaiden played Jane Banks in their high school show and Moomin was on lighting crew. They had their first kiss at the cast party.

Snufkin can spell the word forwards and backwards and in harmony because he’s always around when Moomin’s having girl problems. But he doesn’t let Moomin know, so he says, “what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

Snufkin doesn’t pry. He knows that if Moomin really wants to talk, he’ll talk first. Besides, he happens to like the silence. 

Moomin’s still mumbling, and he forgets to put his turn signal on before turning left. Snufkin doesn’t say anything because they haven’t seen another car for half an hour. 

“Remember when Snorkmaiden was in Annie in middle school?”

Snufkin nods. 

“Isn’t it kind of sad how the only song people know is, like, the Hard Knock Life? I mean, someone worked hard on the music and people only know one song.” Moomin’s breathing is a little shallow. “I don’t know. I think it’s sad.”

“What about Tomorrow?”

Moomin pauses for a second. “Oh. I forgot about that one.”

They lapse back into silence. It’s still a little awkward. There’s clearly something on the tip of Moomin’s tongue, and Snufkin wants him to just _say_ it and get it over with.

But that’s not Moomin’s way, is it? No, he sits on things for god knows how long and worries himself into a stupor before finally cracking and breaking down to Snufkin about whatever was causing him such agony. It’s usually Snorkmaiden. Snufkin couldn’t count on all the fingers in the world the amount of times Moomin has ranted for hours about his troubles with the girl, and Snufkin has to feign interest but in the end, do nothing more than pat his head and say ‘there, there.’ They always make up within the week, and Moomin always feels guilty about unloading his problems onto Snufkin and takes him hiking or something.

It’s a vicious cycle, and Snufkin has known Moomin for long enough to recognize the symptoms.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is one of them. 

S-u-p-e-r, c-a-l-i-f, r-a-g-i-l, i-s-t-i-c-e-x-p-i-a-l-i-d-o! c-i-o-u-s! 

Forwards, backwards, in harmony.

Snufkin feels like their friendship is all about making allowances. It’s bending, shifting priorities. It’s listening to country music in the car and saying goodbye for a month, even if you don’t want to.

Snufkin suddenly feels as though he could cry. 

So he takes Moomin’s phone from where it sits in the busted cup holder and plugs in the aux. He learned Moomin’s password in the eighth grade and he hasn’t changed it since. 7-1-3-2. He finds Spotify and opens it up and asks, “what do you want me to play?”

Moomin clenches his jaw and looks out onto the endless road. “There’s, uh, a playlist. Called ‘Snufkin’. Play that one.”

Snufkin puts it on shuffle and shrinks down into his seat, closing his eyes tight to fight the heat rising behind his eyelids. 

The songs on the playlist are mournful, country songs about traveling and the beauty of nature. Folk songs, too. Old ones. It makes him feel even worse, somehow. 

An hour later, when they pull into a rest stop, Snufkin gets a key from the teenage cashier to the bathroom and throws up in the stained, chipped toilet.

When he gets back to the car, he turns off the Snufkin playlist and chooses one called ‘Junior Year.’

He knows the playlist; the two of them had made it the last day of eleventh grade, all upbeat songs they had danced to at cast parties and in the privacy of Moomin’s bedroom. 

It doesn’t help much, but he can feel the melancholic stranglehold on his heart loosen a little. 

It’s different, driving with a destination.

They have a map up on Moomin’s phone so that they don’t get too off track. 

It all just feels… off.

Something’s not quite right between them.

When they reach their destination, what then? 

It rains in the afternoon all the way into the night. They have no choice but the roll up the windows and sit in the stuffiness of the car, listening to the thunder split the skies apart behind them. 

Snufkin’s always loved thunderstorms. He loves the thunder and the lightning and the intensity of the rain. It’s all so dramatic, like something out of a novel they might’ve read in English Lit. He loves most of all the feeling earlier in the day, when you can walk outside and just know that a storm is on the horizon. The way the wind blows is different. Everything seems a little muddled and a little more exciting.

That night, in one of the rare breaks in the downpour, Moomin steps outside of the parked car and calls his mother.

Snufkin sits in the trunk on top of his sleeping bag, in his pajamas, and listens. He knows he shouldn’t, but the door is open. He feels like Little My, but a little guiltier.

“Hi, Mamma,” Moomin says gently. 

“Yes, I’m having fun.”

“Uh… I don’t know. It’s all been great.”

“We’re going to a bluegrass open mic thing tomorrow night. We saw an advertisement for in a diner.”

“Yes, he’s-” Moomin laughs a little, “taking care of me. I’m eighteen, Mamma. Just because Snufkin’s older than me doesn’t mean- yes, I know. Yes. Of course I am, Mamma.”

“I’ll call you again soon.”

“It was nice to hear your voice. Goodbye.”

“I love you too.”

When Moomin comes back to the car, Snufkin tries to pretend he wasn’t paying attention. It doesn’t really work.

Moomin crawls into his sleeping bag and for a long time they lie there, not sleeping. Just thinking.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk much today.”

“That’s alright,” Snufkin says.

“We can talk tomorrow.”

“If you want.”

“I do,” Moomin says. “I want to talk.”

Snufkin doesn’t answer. Moomin rolls over, facing the side of the car. Snufkin watches his back rise and fall.

Snufkin wishes he would turn the other way, so they could look at each other head-on. That’s how things like this should be. Not skirting around each other on the rainy days.

“Hey, Snuf?” Moomin whispers.

“Yeah?”

Moomin sits up, his sleeping bag pooling at his waist. He looks down at his hands. “Nevermind.”

Snufkin pretends to be able to read his friend so much better than he really can. Because as he lies awake that night, he can’t make sense of it all. All he knows for sure is the smell of shampoo and sweat and the distant roll of thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter i know rip   
> i'm volunteering at a children's theater and i'm in snufkin's boat now when it comes to that goddamn song (forwards, backwards, fucking harmony man)  
> what did moomin want? we'll never know~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go to the bluegrass night (finally)

They wake up early the next morning, right as the sun begins its journey up into the sky.

The sunrise is a glorious scarlet, and they stand outside the car in their pajamas to watch it. It’s cold and misty in the morning. Snufkin shivers in his thin t-shirt and flannel pants, and Moomin drapes his arms over Snufkin’s shoulders to keep them warm.

“Red sky in the morning, lover’s warning,” Snufkin muses.

“You dolt,” Moomin says, his voice still groggy from sleep. “It’s _sailor’s_ warning.”

Snufkin laughs. “I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.” Moomin contradicts, keeping his eyes fixed on the rising sun. 

They have to buy more bread. They’ve eaten too many sandwiches. 

The closest grocery store opens at 9, so they kill time by sitting on one of the picnic benches at their campsite and watching all the other people go about their morning business, stumbling out of tents and RVs and blinking in the sun. They make coffee over Snufkin’s camp stove and drink it slowly. There’s a family in the campsite next to them in a big white RV with three kids, all with mullets and camouflage pants. Two of the three boys are shirtless, running wild. The youngest out of them wanders out into the dirt road and a car comes, slowing down to let the boy pass but he just stops and stares at the car before darting off. 

At 9:15, they get in the car and drive. The radio plays the Beach Boys and Moomin knows every word to Kokomo, for some reason. Snufkin catches along and they’re both singing, and everything seems so excellent. 

The grocery store is cold like all grocery stores are, and it feels weird to be in the crisp cold rather than the smothering humidity. The wispy hair on Moomin’s arms stands on end. Snufkin sees it when Moomin reaches for the bread. They get bread and an extra jar of peanut butter and there’s a great deal on this bucket of cookies, so they have no choice but to buy it. Moomin buys a pack of colorful yarn and won’t tell Snufkin what for. 

They buy ice cream sandwiches from a little ice cream shop adjacent to the grocery store and eat them on the hood of the car. There’s a van parked next to them, a hippie-looking thing with beaded curtains in the windows and bumper stickers all over it. On the passenger side door, though, are hundreds of scribbled names. Snufkin can tell that it was lots of different people over lots of different years; some names are dark, some names were written with a sharpie that was almost out of ink. They sit in the sun and eat their ice cream and read off the names. Some are normal: Gregory D and Rebecca and Henry Masterson. There’s also a Downward Dan and Rob “The Rat Bastard” Gianni. 

Moomin has a silver sharpie in his backpack and they take it out and write their names on the dashboard, just above the steering wheel. Snufkin can’t take his eyes off it. The loopy, clean Moomin and the messy, cramped Snufkin. 

They have to get to the town with the bluegrass thing by 6:30, so they start driving. It’s humid and overcast and Moomin’s hair curls around his temples. They don’t pass through many towns, and the ones they do stumble upon are small, dilapidated things; towns with rusty gas stations and sparsely placed houses with peeling paint. Snufkin loves it. The setting seems like something out of a TV show or something. It just all feels so _interesting_. 

Moomin takes his yarn out of his bag and starts, slowly, to make a friendship bracelet. He tapes it to his knee and very tentatively ties the little knots, a multicolored chevron slowly taking form. 

Snufkin is no stranger to friendship bracelets. He had, from third grade to eighth, gone to summer camp. It was classic; a boy and a girl’s side, a big wooden dining hall, sub-par showers. At that camp, Snufkin had been alienated by the boys, grew to really appreciate Queen, and learned how to make a myriad of bracelet patterns. For the entirety of junior year his arms were laden with bracelets, chevrons and candy stripes and ones with little yellow lions that he had learned to make with much difficulty. He had mixed memories of summer camp. He had been ostracized by the other boys at camp and slept in the health lodge ever since an unfortunate incident with some mean-spirited CITs. But he had been taken in by a group of girls (they called themselves the “Lesbian Underground”) who taught him how to plant spider’s eggs in certain canoes. 

As he watches Moomin work he has a strange urge to correct his mistakes. That knot needs to be pulled tighter, and he really should’ve used embroidery floss, not yarn. But he keeps his mouth shut. It’s probably a present for Snorkmaiden. Her wrists are always covered with bracelets over the summer, little tokens of affection from camp friends and coworkers at the pool. 

Snorkmaiden actually made it to CIT. Snufkin dropped out early. 

It hurts to think about Snorkmaiden. Too many movie nights have been ruined by Moomin’s arm around her. Snufkin knows it’s horrible to think like that, but when he thinks about that bracelet being added to Snorkmaiden’s collection, something in his gut twists like someone jabbed a corkscrew into his stomach. 

They drive for what feels like ages. The pine trees all blur together. Moomin spots a deer out his window, but Snufkin just barely misses it. Moomin says it was like something out of a fairy tale, even though they’re driving down the highway and the road is littered with garbage, cigarettes and empty beer bottles. 

The church where the bluegrass thing is taking place is called the Old White Church and it lives up to the name. It’s a big wooden box, covered in peeling white paint that has long gone gray. It’s kind of beautiful, in some strange way. The big steeple in the back framed by the trees and the distant mountains. The one solemn cross hung above the door. 

Snufkin takes a picture of Moomin in the parking lot, his arms thrown up to the sky and a wonderful smile on his face. 

They get there a little earlier than it’s supposed to begin, so they sit in the car and eat sandwiches. Every once in a while Snufkin sees their names on the dashboard and some lovely feeling floods his chest, filling him from his toes to the top of his head with warmth.

Music begins at 6:15, the sound of tuning banjos and violins and experimental strums of the guitar. So they make their way into the church. It’s strange crossing the threshold. It almost feels wrong, the two of them. As if they don’t deserve to be there. 

Inside the chapel is a large circle of white plastic folding chairs. Snufkin realizes that they are probably the only people in the building under the age of 40, save for what looks like a father-daughter duo. The daughter is young and blonde and is wearing what Snufkin assumes is her dad’s flannel, her entire upper half swallowed in the fabric. She’s got a banjo in her lap and bites her lip as she tunes it, craning her neck downwards toward the body of the instrument to hear over the cacophony in the room.

Snufkin and Moomin take a seat next to each other, feeling far too conspicuous. For one, they don’t have any instruments. And it’s not like they can pitch in in the singing area, either.

The entire thing is very informal. There’s no introduction or anything, they just start playing. That is, one man shouts “one, two, three, four!” and launches into a complicated-looking guitar solo. The folks around the circle all nod and smile to themselves and join in on their respective instruments. 

Moomin sits back in his chair, a stupid grin on his face. Snufkin loves it.

There’s a bruise on Snufkin’s knee. He presses it with the tip of his index finger, just to make sure it’s real. It is.

Everyone sings along to the music. Not Snufkin or Moomin. But everyone else. It’s bizarre how good the music is, although spontaneous. The harmonies are bright and uplifting and Snufkin doesn’t even care that Snorkmaiden is texting Moomin, because he isn’t even looking at his phone. 

At one point Moomin looks down to where his phone is resting, screen-up, on his knee. He picks it up and squints at the texts, and Snufkin knows that he’s going to text back that he’s bored out of his mind, that he wishes he had never come, and that he’s going to never speak to Snufkin again as soon as they got back home. But he just turns off his phone and slips it in his back pocket, and Snufkin can feel that warm feeling of elation grow in his chest like the blossoms on the cherry tree in Moomin’s backyard.

There’s a card table in the corner with beer and one of those boxes of coffee. Snufkin gets some coffee and takes his cardboard cup back to his seat, where they other people are singing some unfamiliar song and Moomin is tapping his foot on the wooden floor. The coffee is lukewarm and bitter but it’s better than just sitting there without something to hold. 

The girl sings a song by herself, accompanying herself on her banjo. It’s old and dusty looking, and the white on the body is rubbed away to silver where her pinky and ring finger rests. Her voice is high and lilting and on certain notes it flutters around, trilling like a flute. She’s got hair like Snorkmaiden’s and Snufkin can tell that’s what Moomin’s thinking about too. It’s a strange song, long and repetitive. But she draws Snufkin into the story, and he can’t help but notice the necklace- a silver tree- hanging down over her flannel and the way she pronounces the word ‘daughter.’

At 9:00 the music is done and the people there mill about, drinking coffee and chatting. Snufkin makes his way over to the girl, who’s standing silently next to her father, who’s comparing guitars with one of the other men. 

“You were excellent,” Snufkin tells her.

She laughs and looks down at her banjo, still slung around her neck. “Thanks.”

Snufkin can tell that the conversation could end then, but he doesn’t want it to. And he doesn’t want to acknowledge Moomin right now, who’s typing like mad on his phone in the corner. “Have you always played the banjo?”

“No,” she says, plucking a string absentmindedly. “I just started playing a few years ago. My mom, uh, she bought this banjo for my dad in college. He never really played it, though. He’s a guitarist.”

“Oh. Well, you’re very good.”

She laughs again, but this time she looks right at Snufkin, and her eyes are very blue. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Snufkin,” he says.

“I like that name.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I chose it myself.”

“I’m Tinah.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She plucks each of her strings in order, as if tuning it. Which is useless, given that it’s already tuned. “I haven’t seen you here before. Do you live in the area?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Oh.”

They stand there for a few seconds more, not talking. Tinah reaches up and touches her necklace. She has little stud earrings that reflect the light. 

“Can you play something for me?” Snufkin says suddenly.

Tinah looks confused for a moment, but she shifts her banjo strap on her shoulder and says, “let’s go outside. It’s too loud in here.”

So they both go out into the parking lot. It’s barely nighttime. There’s still a little bit of purple that dusts the tops of the trees and colors both of their faces a deep blue, lit from the side by the light leaking through the windows of the church. 

Tinah leans against the wall of the church and experimentally strums her banjo. “What would you like to hear?” 

“What would you like to play?”

She touches her necklace again, worrying it between her fingers, thinking. She plucks a few notes and smiles. 

“ _I took my love, and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around. _”__

__She’s singing lower than she did before. Her voice is a little huskier, a little warmer. Her fingers move quickly over the strings of her banjo, and she keeps her eyes closed as she sings._ _

__“ _Well, I’ve been afraid of changing because I’ve built my life around you. But time makes you bolder, even children get older; and I’m getting older, too. _”___ _

____Snufkin can’t help but smile along with her. It’s chilly out on the steps of the church, but he feels warm._ _ _ _

____And when Moomin comes out and walks to the car, Snufkin doesn’t even care about Snorkmaiden. And he can’t get that song out of his head. He keeps humming it under his breath all night until Moomin tells him to stop it, please._ _ _ _

____They sleep in a Walmart parking lot, right under a streetlight so that if a murderer came sneaking up on them, they’d be able to see. But the light makes it so that Snufkin can’t get a wink of sleep, so he just lies there and listens to Moomin’s gentle snoring next to him._ _ _ _

____There’s a stain on the roof of his car. Right above the rear window, just a little splotch of brownish-red. Snufkin’s pretty sure it came from the car’s previous owner, but he has no idea how it would’ve gotten there in the first place._ _ _ _

____There’s a birthmark, the same brown color, on Moomin’s neck. Just behind his right ear, where hairline meets skin. How many times has Snufkin sat behind him, looking at that birthmark?_ _ _ _

____Outside, a fox screams._ _ _ _

____Snufkin pulls his sleeping bag all the way up over his head and, after much ado, sleeps._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry this took so long i've been at camp for three weeks (i'm a cit woot woot)  
> please comment it makes my little goldfish brain happie


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry lol

After the bluegrass night, everything feels different. They no longer have a destination to aim for, and Snufkin hadn’t realized how infuriating their driving aimlessly had been. 

Something’s changed between them, too. Snufkin can’t pinpoint it. 

But there’s a feeling all around them, just like when Snufkin stood outside the car that morning and breathed deep before announcing that he could smell fall in the air.

They don’t drive for long. At about lunchtime they come across a campsite advertising shockingly low prices and decide that it’s the best they’ll be able to swing. It’s just like all the others, sloping pines and worn dirt paths. Dirty showers and a communal spigot crusted in spiderwebs and old toothpaste. 

In the nearest town there’s a waterfall. It’s small but it’s a waterfall nonetheless, with hiking trails up and down the mountain. They pick an easy one and Moomin moves his crocs to ‘adventure mode’ and they’re off. 

It almost feels like they’re in middle school again, making fantasy quests in the town forest. They would always pretend to be ragtag orphans or something like that, despite the fact that they came in Moominmamma’s car. 

Moomin takes pictures of all the wildflowers. Snorkmaiden went through a photography phase sophomore year, and she dragged Moomin along to a class as a fun date idea. Then, after she dropped the hobby, it was revealed that Moomin was a much better photographer than she ever had been, in Snufkin’s opinion. 

At the top of the falls, there’s a big rock ledge jutting out over the water. The families with little kids seem to steer clear, and Snufkin doesn’t blame them. But he walks right out and sits down on the edge. It’s astounding, how it drops off into nothingness. But it’s not nothing. It’s a mass of churning waves crashing over rocks and trees that have drooped over, their leaves skating the top of the water. 

Moomin sits down next to him. “Isn’t this wild?” He says.

Snufkin nods. He knows it’s not the waterfall that’s wild. Moomin’s been to a waterfall before; they visited one on a French class trip in eighth grade. What’s wild is the two of them sitting there, in the middle of god knows where, shoulder to shoulder over a hundred feet of roaring water. 

Snufkin likes the way their feet look hanging over the falls. Snufkin’s dirty sneakers and Moomin’s crocs. 

There are children below them, where the water evens out into a gentle creek, splashing around and yelling. 

Moomin sighs and leans back, his hands propped behind his head. Snufkin follows suit. It’s really a beautiful day; there’s not a cloud in the sky. Snufkin drinks in the feeling of the sun on his face before the winter comes. The last days of summer always feel nostalgic and melancholy. 

The rough rock scratches the skin on the back of his arms. There’s lichen crusted all around, and when Snufkin looks over, Moomin’s got some in his hair, stuck to the nape of his neck. 

Just as Snufkin’s beginning to worry about the dangers of nodding off, they get up and start heading back. It rained the night before and the ground is still in the in-between phase between mud and dirt, and they slip an embarrassing amount on the trail down. 

They eat peanut butter sandwiches (they ran out of jelly two days ago) on the picnic tables at the bottom of the waterfall. There’s an open expanse of grass where people sunbathe and play frisbee, and they watch the people go about.

“I have something to give you,” Moomin says unprompted.

Snufkin’s lying on his back on the table with his eyes closed. “Oh?” 

There’s movement on Moomin’s end. “Here. Open your eyes.”

Snufkin complies. 

In Moomin’s hand is a bracelet, the friendship bracelet he was making in the car. Chunky yarn and uneven stripes. The colors are pretty. White and maroon and forest green. Snufkin sticks out his wrist and Moomin ties it around, his fingers clumsily working at the knot. Skin against skin. 

Snufkin holds his hand out way in front of him, theatrically taking in the way the bracelet looks against his skin, the patchy tan earned from hours in the car and the dense forest of freckles. “Thanks.”

Moomin grins. “Remember when you used to wear those all the time?”

“Yeah.” It looks nice, just the one. With all the old bracelets his arm had looked cluttered, with none it had looked empty. But it’s perfect now.

“I figured you’d want something to remember me by when we go off on our separate ways.”

Snufkin holds his smile, even though he wants nothing more than to scowl. “Yeah.”

They buy more jelly at the nearest grocery store. “I think the phrase ‘Food Mart’ is so funny, don’t you?” Moomin says. Snufkin says he doesn’t get it. 

They get strawberry instead of grape. They need a change. 

That night, back at the campsite, they sit on the little picnic table that comes with the site and watch all the other campers. There’s a family with a mom and a dad and a little girl that make s’mores over lightly burning coals. Across from them, a group of young people, probably a year or two older than themselves, sit around a roaring fire. They can hear the voices from their spot at the table, but not any words.

Snufkin sips at some coffee he made over the camp stove. It’s a little too watery. Moomin reaches out his hand and Snufkin passes the mug over. What’s a shared cup of coffee between two friends? 

One person from the group of kids shines a flashlight over to them, temporarily blinding Snufkin. He can feel Moomin tense beside him.

“You folks want to join us?” Someone hollers. 

Moomin shakes his head stiffly. “What if they’re murderers?” He hisses.

“I’ve never met a murderer yet.” Snufkin says casually. “We’ll be right over!” He yells back. 

“First time for everything,” Moomin mumbles.

They go over with a bag of chips scavenged from the backseat. The other people are sitting around the campfire in oversized hoodies and sweatpants, passing a carton of lemonade back and forth.

Snufkin and Moomin sit side by side on the dirt in front of the fire. 

“Why did you invite us over?” Moomin asks. 

One of them, the one with pink hair, shrugs. “You looked lonely.”

“There are two of us,” Moomin says.

“You can be lonely with other people.”

Snufkin passes around the chips.

Apparently the people are making wishes. To them, making wishes means taking a handful of flour and throwing it in the fire and wishing over it.

Snufkin thinks it’s a lovely idea. 

Back home, Moominmamma would always tell them to wish on the new moon if they really wanted something. It feels like a little bit of home coming up to greet them. 

They go around the circle, and every time someone looses a handful of flour, the fire sparks up, a flash of light making everyone squint for a second before their eyes readjust. 

Snufkin goes last. He holds his hand clutched over the fire, the flour sticking to the sweat on his palm. _I wish for Moomin to feel the way I do,_ he wants to wish.

But that seems… selfish.

It seems like too shallow of a wish to make. 

Snufkin closes his eyes and opens his hand, letting the flour fall into the fire. 

_I wish to always keep Moomin in my heart._

~

It rains the next night. 

It’s a gentle rain, but it catches them off guard. They hadn’t mentioned rain on the radio that morning, and when Snufkin had gone out to brush his teeth he couldn’t feel it on the air like he usually could.

But as they set up their sleeping bags and change into their pajamas and wait for sleep to come, they can hear the rain drumming on the roof of the car. 

It’s only about nine, so Snufkin leaves the inside lights on and Moomin reads his book, the bottom half of him all swaddled in his sleeping bag. Snufkin watches the raindrops slide down the windows. They’re sitting facing each other, their backs against opposite sides of the car, their feet inches apart. 

Moomin’s pajama top is an old t-shirt of his fathers, advertising an annual barbecue that happened in 2004. It’s much too big for him, and it’s all stretched out, especially at the collar, where the fabric hangs limp around his neck. The skin of his neck is still pale, not quite touched by the sun. There are three freckles all in a row over his collarbone, and as Moomin reads Snufkin can clearly see them peeking over the fabric of his shirt.

He would very much like to touch those freckles.

But instead he sits there and listens to the rain thrum, trying to calm his beating heart. 

Moomin gets a text. 

Then another.

Then a call.

Moomin frowns and picks up his phone, silently waving goodbye to Snufkin and stepping outside into the rain. Snufkin can’t hear the conversation this time. The rain is too loud and Moomin’s shielding his voice on purpose, he can tell. 

He’s out there for a long time.

Sometimes he raises his voice and though Snufkin can’t understand it he can hear it bleed through the white noise, the unique intensity and timbre of it. 

At 10:54 Moomin comes back into the car.

His hair is stuck to his face and he’s wet all over, and Snufkin’s stomach feels like when you go over the first hill on a rollercoaster. 

He doesn’t look too happy.

He climbs back into his sleeping bag and pulls it all the way up to his shoulders. He lies there for a bit. Snufkin gets into his own sleeping bag, figuring it’s a good a time as any to get to sleep. 

“Snorkmaiden broke up with me,” Moomin says.

“She did?”

“Yeah,” Moomin says, as quiet as a barn mouse. “Just now.”

“Why?” As far as Snufkin’s concerned, Moomin was the perfect boyfriend. Doting. Considerate. Wonderful all around.

Moomin rolls over so that his back is facing Snufkin. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles into the fabric of his sleeping bag. 

Snufkin doesn’t know what to say. He knows he should say something. The friend is supposed to be comforting during a breakup. But he’s never been good at this kind of stuff. “If it’s any consolation, you were always too good for her anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Moomin says, and Snufkin can’t ignore the bitterness in his voice.

“I mean she never deserved you.”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Short and clipped. Angry.

Snufkin goes quiet. 

Moomin tilts his head back until it hits the wall of the car. “It just really fucking sucks.”

“Don’t swear,” Snufkin says.

“You’re not better than me,” Moomin spits.

Snufkin’s taken aback. This isn’t his Moomin, not the Moomin he’s shared a car with the past few weeks. “I never said I was.”

“You always act like this. Like you’re better than me for not swearing and not having a girlfriend. Which doesn’t even make sense, you know? It’s really just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” Snufkin says. Because he is sorry. He’s sorry that Moomin’s hurting and that Snorkmaiden would do such an underhanded thing, breaking up with him over a phone call, hundreds of miles away? “I just- I only meant that Snorkmaiden never seemed to appreciate you enough. You would always come crying about things she had done and I never felt like she loved you, Moomin. Not like you loved her.”

“Fuck you,” Moomin says. “She said you would do this. She said you would get defensive. She always said it was like you were, like, in love with me or something.” 

Snufkin doesn’t know what to say to that. It feels like the verbal equivalent of a sock to the jaw. “I’m not defen-”

“She told me not to tell you because she _knew_ you would do this! Like you always do!”

A pause. “She said not to tell me?”

Moomin flushes. “I mean-”

“But I’m your best friend.” Snufkin feels something metal twist in his gut. “You tell me everything.”

Moomin looks down at his hands, where his fingernails are bitten to the quick. Like Snufkin’s hands. All ragged cuticles and dirt-stained fingers. “I don’t tell you everything.”

And there’s silence.

They’ve said what needed to be said.

They both climb back into their sleeping bags and lie there, back facing back, with a million emotions still hanging in the air. 

“I’m sorry,” Moomin says. “I think… being here- with you- it’s all too much, I think.”

The carpet on the bottom of the car is rough against Snufkin’s exposed skin but he doesn’t move. 

The rain starts back up again.

“Do you want to go home?”

Moomin sniffs behind him. “Yes.”

“Alright, Moomee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry lmao  
> it needed to be done  
> comment your feelings of betrayal on a scale from 1-10


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They start going back.

They set out for home that morning.

It’s strange to consider it ‘home.’

To Snufkin, the beat-up car for the last few weeks was more of a home than Moominvalley ever had been. 

Snufkin drives and Moomin naps in the passenger seat, his face smushed up against the window. He doesn’t play his music, and Snufkin’s left alone with his thoughts.

He ruminates on what the woman at the bonfire had told them. How it was possible to be lonely with company. That’s all they are, aren’t they? Just two idiots who found out how to be so dreadfully alone, even with another warm body in the passenger seat. 

Snufkin’s never felt so young. And stupid. He’s ruined everything, like he always knew he would. Like Snorkmaiden knew he would, apparently. 

And everything in this goddamn car reminds him of the happy memories they had shared just a day before. Their names, written just above the steering wheel. The bracelet still lovingly looped around Snufkin’s wrist. 

They drive through the mountains, all looming hills and sloping pines. Snufkin will drive around a bend and the whole world will open up, the oppressive trees and rock formations giving way to an open expanse that makes you feel as though no matter what you do, you’ll never be able to make any mark on the world, not a mark like the deep valleys cut by rivers millions of years ago.

When Moomin’s awake, he doesn’t talk to Snufkin; he just plays games on his phone, dragging little people around their imaginary house. 

It just hurts so much.

Snufkin wishes they hadn’t traveled so far. Because now he’s stuck in the car with Moomin for days, if they continue at a steady clip. He doesn’t know if he can take days of this. 

They eat sandwiches in the car. Something about eating in a restaurant doesn’t seem right; it’s too intimate, too friendly. 

They chat sporadically. Because Moomin’s still his friend, and Snufkin is still Moomin’s. Even if he ruined everything in one fell swoop, Moomin’s at least courteous. 

Snufkin points out cool landmarks and Moomin looks at all the houses they pass, musing aloud what kind of people live there.

And Snufkin isn’t one to swear, but. It really fucking sucks.

It sucks that Moomin isn’t laughing or telling dumb stories or playing his country music.

God, what Snufkin would give to hear Carrie Underwood right now.

And then he starts to think about how they’re graduated, how this is _it_. After this road trip, they’re going to see each other less and less until they both eventually drop off the other’s maps. And he messed it all up.

There are so many things they’re never going to do again. They’re never going to have study sleepovers before exams, ones that involve a lot of TV and very little studying. They’re never going to go to that taco place down the road for lunch and come back with bags of chips to make the freshmen jealous. 

Snufkin’s never going to sit alone on the end of the couch during movie night while Snorkmaiden sits half in Moomin’s lap, his arm draped loosely over her shoulder. 

Actually, Snufkin’s not too disappointed about that one.

They cross hundreds of miles in a day. Past landmarks that they don’t stop and get out to see. 

Snufkin wants to get home as soon as possible so that he can leave, he can pretend this never happened, he can disappear into the woods and never come out. And Moomin can move on and go to college and find a new girlfriend; a lawyer or something. Someone up-and-coming, someone any parent would approve of. 

He doesn’t know why he’s bitter. It was Snorkmaiden’s choice to break up with Moomin, and it was his choice to date her in the first place. And it’s not like the Moomins don’t like him. He’s practically an extension of the family. Snufkin just feels as though he was constantly playing second fiddle to Snorkmaiden, even though Little my had always assured him that Moomin didn’t give half a can of beans about Snorkmaiden compared to Snufkin.

He just… he thought he was special.

Especially during this trip. There were moments where walls were broken down and everything seemed perfect and right and Snufkin felt loved and special, not a backup plan.

So it hurts all the more to have Moomin ignore him. It cements the idea that he’s nothing more than a temporary friend, one that can be thrown away when the water rises. 

He wants to go back to the night at the old church, when all the music was uplifting and Moomin looked happy. 

Snufkin feels restless, as though he needs to _do_ something. Get up and run around a bit, maybe. Turn on music and dance around with reckless abandon. Something like that. 

He feels stagnant, trapped. 

There was one night, a long time ago.

It was the end of sophomore year, and Snufkin had just gotten his license. He wasn’t technically allowed to have anyone outside of his family in the car while he drove, but it was ten o’ clock on a Friday and Snufkin and Moomin went out to McDonald’s, just the two of them. It was thrilling and fun and comfortable. 

That’s what Snufkin thinks about, him driving and Moomin in the passenger seat, watching the trees pass. 

That night they had turned the radio all the way up and took corners too sharply and when Moomin ate his chicken nuggets, he got barbecue sauce on the corners of his mouth and licked it off so dramatically that Snufkin laughed so hard his stomach hurt. 

The next morning Moominmamma had chewed them out for going out late without telling anyone but they didn’t really care because it had all been worth it, it really had.

And at school on Monday Snorkmaiden got mad that she hadn’t been invited and Moomin gave Snufkin a look that made him feel as though he was privy to a most excellent secret, though he didn’t know what it was.

There are so many things Snufkin’s going to miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i'm sorry this chapter is so woefully short rip  
> the reason why snufkin has a license in sophomore year is bc in this he was held back a year so he's older  
> please comment APUSH is slaying meeee


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astronomical delights abound.

Moomin calls his mother at lunchtime the next day. 

They’re sitting in the parking lot of a roadside rest stop, the kind with only a vending machine and a bathroom and ashtrays dispersed everywhere. Snufkin’s sitting on a picnic table, letting the sun warm his hair, when Moomin excuses himself to stand behind a tree.

“Hi, Mamma,” he says into the phone.

Snufkin, again, feels guilty for eavesdropping. But he’s not exactly being quiet, and the wind is blowing Snufkin’s direction. So it’s not his fault.

“No, no. I’m not coming down with something. I just haven’t been talking much, is all.”

“... No. Nothing happened.”

“We’re eating lunch. I expect we’ll be home by Friday.”

“Yes. We both felt it was time to head back.”

“Well we didn’t, okay?” Moomin snaps. He pauses. “Sorry, Mamma.”

Snufkin remembers one night, a long time ago, that he spent at the Moomins’ house. They were having a sleepover with all of their friends, and it had gone well until everyone else went to sleep and Snufkin was left lying awake on the floor of Moomin’s bedroom.

When he had gotten up to go to the bathroom, he had found Moominmamma awake in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and listening to ABBA on the radio. 

Moominmamma had made him some warm milk with Ovaltine and they had both sung along very quietly to The Name of the Game, though Snufkin only knew the first verse and the chorus. 

She confided in him that even when one was happy, it was still possible to feel discontented. Snufkin had nodded at this sage insight and had been sent back up to bed with a book and a kiss on the forehead. 

And the next morning, when they had waffles and juice, Moominmamma hadn’t said anything about the way Snufkin’s head drooped over his plate. 

“It’s…” Moomin’s voice quivered. “Snorkmaiden broke up with me.”

“Yeah. And it- it just- I ruined everything with Snufkin too, and I’ve made him miserable.” 

“I can’t! He wouldn’t understand. He’s never- he’s never had a girlfriend or anything.”

Moomin didn’t say anything. And then, weak as can be, “what do I do, Mamma?”

“I can’t tell him.”

“He’ll hate me.”

For a while, there was silence while Moominmamma talked, save for Moomin’s sniffles. 

“I love you, Mamma.”

Snufkin regrets listening in. What gives him the right to listen to Moomin’s private conversations?

And what does Moomin need to tell Snufkin?

They get back in the car without a word. Moomin’s eyes are red and he sniffs sporadically in the passenger seat. 

It’s starting to get on his nerves.

Why can’t Moomin just talk? Why can’t they go back to normal? 

Snufkin takes a turn too hard and realizes how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “I’m going to put on some music.”

They get to a red light and Snufkin jams the aux into his phone, turning on the first thing that shows up. ABBA.

Good lord.

This is going to be a long ride.

Moomin doesn’t change the station, he just sinks further into his seat and closes his eyes. Three songs in and Snufkin’s pretty sure he’s asleep, and Snufkin’s left alone with his regrettable music choices.

Moominmamma’s a big fan of ABBA. One time he asked her why, and she had said, “their songs are so joyful, dear. I think we need joyful music every once in a while.”

_So when you’re near me, darling, can’t you hear me? S.O.S!_

Snufkin’s not feeling too joyful right now. 

_When you’re gone, how can I even try to go on?_

~

They stop for the night at a quaint little campsite by a lake. 

There’s a little visitor’s center where they pay and buy firewood and the like, and Moomin pays at the front desk while Snufkin peruses a rack of postcards. 

“Are you two here for the Perseids?” The woman at the desk says. 

“What are the Perseids?” Moomin asks.

Snufkin would love to explain that the woman’s talking about the Perseid meteor shower, about how the meteors are called Perseids because the radiant is in the Perseus constellation and how it’s at its peak right now.

But they’re not talking, and by the time Snufkin remembers this the woman at the counter has already explained it all, though not in as much detail as Snufkin would have.

Moomin agrees that sure, they’ll rent a canoe to take out at night to see the shower. 

When they return to the car Snufkin has the urge to ask why on earth Moomin would be willing to share a canoe with him in the middle of the night when they haven’t said a word to each other for the past two days.

Moomin seems to read his mind, because he rolls out his sleeping bag and says, “I know it’s silly, but it seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Snufkin bites his tongue so as to not correct Moomin that actually, the Perseids come every year. 

They go to bed at nine and set an alarm for midnight, and when Snufkin gets into his sleeping bag he can’t help but feel a stir of excitement within him. 

At midnight, when the alarm goes off, Snufkin’s eyes are heavy but he gets up nonetheless, because he’s known Moomin for so long that he knows he’s going to need a little more than an alarm to wake up. Even this simple action sends a pang through Snufkin’s chest, because who’s going to wake him up for a midnight rendezvous in college? 

They stumble their way down to the lake, bleary, and Snufkin tries to capture the memory, the way Moomin’s hair is all mussed up on one side, the thrill in his stomach.

They launch the little plastic canoe and set out on the water. There are a few other boats, people who’ve had the same idea as them. But the lake is big enough that Snufkin still feels as though it’s just the two of them alone in the world. 

They row out to the middle of the lake. The water is deep black and still as glass. Snufkin drags his fingers in the water, watching the ripples grow outwards and the bugs skitter away. 

Above them, the sky extends up into an endless expanse of light. It’s full of stars, stars like Snufkin’s never seen before. 

It’s a new moon, and the only light comes from the constellations above them. 

“Look!” Moomin says, breathless. He points up at the sky, to where Snufkin can see the last dying glow of a meteor streak across the sky. 

They sit in the bottom of the canoe, back to back, the paddles lying abandoned across their laps. 

“It’s the big dipper,” Moomin says, pointing at a spot over his head, making Snufkin crane his neck to see. Moomin’s hair tickles Snufkin’s ear. And there’s the big dipper, gleaming clear as day in the sky. 

Meteors fly above them, almost two a minute. It seems as if the whole night sky is alive, and the stars are whirling about as if in a dance. The crickets and cicadas hum in the trees and Snufkin can hear the murmur of distant voices. 

There’s a kind of tightness in Snufkin’s heart, a cold breeze that whips through his chest. 

By the light of a passing meteor Snufkin can see the bracelet Moomin made for him still on his wrist. He had worked so hard on it, even though he had used the wrong string and all the stripes were lopsided. 

A meteor crosses the sky before him, and Snufkin knows, in that moment, that Moomin means more to him than anything else had ever before.

It hurts so much that Moomin won’t talk to him or share those stupid jokes anymore. A shiny pebble or a kiss. They sleep on opposite sides of the car and when they wake up in the morning, Moomin hasn’t moved into Snufkin’s space overnight, he doesn’t have his arm or leg thrown haphazardly across Snufkin’s torso. Or if he did shift during the night, he moved away before Snufkin woke up.

He has nothing to lose.

There’s a heavy pressure on his chest, as if a giant had taken his hand and pushed it right against where Snufkin’s torso meets his neck, crushing his windpipe and making his heart ache when he breathes too deep. He’s cold, out on this canoe, but Moomin’s back is pressed against his and the only indication of the chill are the hairs standing at attention on his arms. 

Snufkin knows that everything is at stake right now, in this moment. Winner takes it all.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Snufkin says.

And for a moment there is silence. 

The kind of silence that reaches its skeletal claws deep into the cavity of your chest and gnaws at your stomach, the kind of silence that rattles your ribcage with every breath. 

For a long while there is nothing but the sound of the lake at night.

And then, in a voice as halting and unsure as Snufkin’s heartbeat, Moomin replies, “me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey! give 'em what they want huh  
> well too bad i'm not done yet >:)  
> please comment your favorite ABBA song (mine is when i kissed the teacher)

**Author's Note:**

> hi y'all!  
> ok so i am ~Americaine~ and so this is going to be modeled after an american road trip so buckle up (haha)


End file.
